


for you & you alone.

by westminster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'kiss me so your cover doesnt get blown' trope, First Kiss, M/M, and oblivious, greg is hopeless, such a cliche, undercover greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: “Kiss me.”Greg certainly wasn't expecting that. The alcohol had slowed down his reactions and he was spluttering to find an acceptable response."Kiss me or he'll leave," Mycroft stated, more urgently this time.





	for you & you alone.

**Author's Note:**

> "hey! can you do one of those 'kiss me to catch the criminal' tropes with Mystrade? i'd love to see greg react to that!!"  
> huge thanks to the anon who left this prompt on my tumblr, i absolutely loved writing this.

He hates this. The bar isn’t like his local, full of friendly faces, big scruffy middle aged men, all red-nosed and jovial. instead, it’s dimly lit, styled like an old jazz club. The jukebox is the focal part of the room and pretty socialites are dancing to the soft music that it emits. Sure, he sees the attraction, but it seems so fake, like everyone in this room has a part to play and a role to fill. 

 

He gulps down the bourbon in front of him; the consequential burning at the back of his throat relieves some of the stress. He’s too old to be doing this rookie job, he thinks as he places the now empty glass back on the table with a resounding thud.

 

Anderson. Greg's going to kill him when he gets out of this place. After all, this is his fault. If he hadn’t broken his stupid leg on that stupid sodding crime scene then it’d be him at this ridiculous club, choked by the smell of expensive perfume and abject misery. He’s desperately trying to look like a functioning member of society to catch a suspected drug dealer and he’s starting to wonder if it’s all worth it. 

 

He doesn’t get time to drown himself in self-pity though because his thoughts are cut off by a sudden laugh behind him. If he wasn’t on duty, if the copper instinct inside of him wasn’t set to high alert because of this mission, then he would have dismissed it entirely. However, he picks up on an air of familiarity in it: the laugh is low-pitched, like the person is laughing into their drink and sounds completely and utterly fake. 

 

His first thought is that it’s one of the suspects for this case that they’ve already questioned so he turns around violently quick, which makes it all the more unexpected when his gaze slams into Mycroft Holmes.

 

Greg’s a simple man, when he sees a Holmes: he runs. There’s rarely ever a time when that name doesn’t mean trouble. So, when Mycroft Holmes appears in his peripheral vision, it automatically activates his flight response. He slides lower in his seat, chin hitting his chest as he prays to every high power imaginable that Mycroft didn’t see him. You pillock, Greg thinks, He’s a bloody Holmes, of course he’s seen you. and gears up for a conversation he really doesn’t want to entertain.

 

He spends a good ten minutes analysing the faces of every single person who walks through the door and by his fourth drink, he thinks he’s safe. Before he can brief a sigh of relief, there’s an icy cold hand on his shoulder and Mycroft’s grinch-like smile in his face. 

 

“Gregory! What a surprise. I would have let on earlier, but business takes priority, you know how it is, of course. I imagine you’re not here socially.”

 

Greg picked up on his slurred tone, and assumed that Mycroft’s pleasantries were a result of the whisky in his hand. 

 

“Yeah, I’m actually on a-”

 

“...undercover assignment.” Mycroft finished.

 

Greg smiled: with Sherlock he’d found that the nicer you were, the quicker he’d bore and leave. He hoped this same logic applied to both Holmes brothers. 

 

“Well, it’s certainly reassuring to know that the alcohol hasn’t affected your deducing abilities.” 

 

To Greg’s surprise, Mycroft flopped into the booth, brushing their shoulders together intimately. Greg sensed a warmth in him that he’d never seen before, and he found their touch to be a comforting presence.

 

Mycroft turned to him and let out a brief, sarcastic laugh. “Gregory dearest, you couldn’t look more like a copper if you had your badge superglued to your forehead.”

 

Greg raised an eyebrow, signalling Mycroft to elaborate. After nearly two decades of undercover work, he’d always assumed he’d nailed the ‘civilian’ look. 

 

Instead, Mycroft leaned in, and Greg’s mind was going into overdrive as Mycroft’s lips were centimetres away from his. At the last second, Mycroft diverted, choosing to whispering into Greg’s ear, “Relax, for a start. You make it obvious that you’re observing people, like you’re picking out your next victim. We’re going for less Jeffrey Dahmer and more Jeff Goldblum.”

 

Mycroft leaned away from Greg as his laughter hit Mycroft’s neck. However, the contact between the two didn’t stop for long because Mycroft moved his hands to the lapels of Greg’s suit, dusting off none existent particles. 

 

“And the suit! You’re not on duty now, detective...” Mycroft unbuttoned Greg’s shirt slightly, showing a hint of dull brown chest hair. His hands then hovered above Greg’s groin, sending a shiver down Greg’s spine, before untucking his shirt from his trousers. 

 

“...hmm, better. Still not working for me though. Lose the tie.” Greg’s unsure why he’s playing this game of Mycroft’s, but he knows from experience that he’ll never win a battle with a Holmes. Years of Sherlock’s outbursts have taught him it’s easier to go with it. So, he begins to loosen his tie until his hands are hastily brushed away my Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft’s slender fingers hook themselves around the cheap cloth of the other man’s tie, pulling him close in the small booth. He methodically removes it, touching as much of Greg’s chest as possible in the process. 

 

“There,” he smiles in admiration of his work,

“truly a masterpiece.” 

 

Greg knows he should annoyed at this, tries to make himself believe that in any other situation he would be. But maybe it’s the alcohol, or the way the other man curls against him like a cat... Greg doesn’t know, nevertheless he grins back at Mycroft.

 

“Thank you.” 

 

Greg finds that talking to Mycroft is more relaxing than he ever thought possible. He’d assumed his mind would be exhausted racing to keep up with his genius. However the calm ambiance of the club caused Mycroft to avoid serious conversation topics, chattering away to Greg about all manor of things. His amicable behaviour caught Greg off guard and he found that he rather liked this version of the man. 

 

They were in the middle of light-hearted argument over a change in management at the local football club when Greg halted abruptly. This was met be a quizzical look from Mycroft but Greg wasn’t looking.

 

The man. The drug dealer. The guy he was here for. His face was unmistakable. All the hours spend staring at the bottom of a glass of bourbon had finally paid off.

 

Mycroft looked up at Greg through his lashes, “Is everything ok?” 

 

“10 ’o’ clock, that’s our guy. I’m sure of it.”

 

The man in question had seemingly clocked the two men staring at him not-too-discreetly, his eyes were darting between the three exits. 

 

Greg began to swear under his breath, how could he have made it so obvious? He was a D.I. goddamnit! Someone at his level should’ve known better than to openly gawk at the suspect. He couldn’t think of anything else to do but to shoot Mycroft a look of helplessness.

 

“Kiss me.” 

 

Well, he certainly wasn't expecting that. The alcohol had slowed down his reactions and he was spluttering to find an acceptable response. 

 

"Kiss me or he'll leave," Mycroft stated, more firmly and urgently this time, "cops generally don't hang around with their gay lovers on a case."

 

This theory seemed completely rational to Greg, and that absolutely terrifies him. Maybe it's the way the bright lights bring out the emerald in Mycroft's eyes, or the way his cologne is completely intoxicating. It could also be something bigger, that Greg's trying hard to dismiss. The underlying fact that perhaps, deep down, he's always wanted to blur the lines between professional and personal with him. If prompted, he'd say it was because he didn't have time to think because the criminal was already half way out the door. Whatever it is, it causes him to lean in close to Mycroft and cautiously pressing their lips together.

 

Mycroft's quick to react, kissing him back hard and with no finesse. Each of them tries to tell themselves it's an act, that it's just for a case, no more. But as Greg's tongue makes it's way into Mycroft's mouth, the last thing on their minds is the drug dealer. They try to cram up as close as possible in the tiny booth and Greg's completely lost all morals, because he mentally says a big 'fuck you' to his job. No, he'll have this night, just this once, to enjoy himself.

 

And he is, enjoying himself. Because Mycroft is emitting these soft little mewls, and it makes Greg feel like he's on fire. It's such a cliché and he knows it, but clichés are that way for a reason. Their kiss becomes slower and more gentle until they finally break it off, still remaining close, foreheads rested against each other. 

 

"Do you have any idea have long I've wanted to do that for?" Mycroft whispers, warm breath against Greg's cheek. His head slides to Greg's neck, planting soft, wet kisses to the small, exposed area.

 

The truth is, Greg had absolutely no clue. He felt too embarrassed to admit it, convinced there must've been signs that he missed. So he merely smiles, breaks away from Mycroft but still keeping a hand placed on his thigh. They sit there, just looking at each other, trying to take in all that's happened. 

 

"Let me take you home," Mycroft proposes, placing a hand over Greg's tentatively. 

 

Greg grinned and made a mental note to send Anderson the biggest bouquet of flowers in the morning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: @mandelsons


End file.
